


Won't you be my ricin?

by Baryshnikov



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath of Murder, Aftermath of Violence, Dark, Dark Harry Potter, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Morality, Implied/Referenced Murder, Love, M/M, Morality, Murder Kink, Possessive Tom Riddle, Romance, Sexual Tension, mild jealousy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Baryshnikov/pseuds/Baryshnikov
Summary: It wasn't new for Tom to have blood on his hands, but it was new to have Harry watch how it got there.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle
Comments: 8
Kudos: 416





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Initially, this was just a practice piece for something else that I'm working on, but, now, I'm pretty sure it can be read as an unofficial prequel to [Digoxin & Coniine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21725722/chapters/51825292)

Tom had blood on his hands.

It was hardly new, this sensation of still-warm blood oozing between his fingers and drying under his nails. But it _was_ new to not be alone in this moment. To have someone sitting there and watching him as you might watch a piece of art. 

Harry was the one here. 

He was sitting on the other side of the room, curled up on the armchair; his feet tucked up under his leg, and his gaze fixed on the floor. Despite Tom standing relatively close, Harry hadn’t yet made eye contact with him, at least, not since the act that had transpired in the space between them had come to its completion.

Tom swallowed, but he stayed where he was, leaning against the window. The room was painfully quiet; the silence pervasive in the air and almost biting on the skin. Somehow loud enough that Tom could practically hear the beating of Harry’s heart, and the slow seeping of fresh blood into the carpet. 

It was a shame, in a way; that had been a nice carpet. But engaging in a game like this was always a gamble, and how exactly it would play out could never quite be anticipated. And, if he was being honest with himself, Tom hadn’t been thinking about the carpet. He hadn’t been thinking of anything, other than how he looked in Harry’s eyes. 

Whether the shadows cast by the light above them were falling at the right angle to sharpen his every bone, and whether the colours that were thrown around the room were the right shades to make demons dance in his eyes. 

Not to mention, Tom had been concentrating slightly more today than perhaps he usually would to something as casual as death, because today he’d used his hands, rather than the magic in his veins. It had always been easier to use magic, just a few words he didn’t even have to say aloud anymore, and someone’s life was snatched from their grasp. There was simplicity to it, and beauty, and, of course, power. That ability to take a life away from someone, _their_ life, with the ease of snapping a twig, oh, it was breath-taking. 

But, then again, magic… lacked something.

Tom was reluctant to admit it, but _sometimes_ maximalism was the way to go. For it was one of the few methods that enabled you to feel the full magnitude of what you did and _revel_ in it. Marvel at it even. There was no other way for him to experience _everything_ ; from the roughness of their clothes against his hands to the typical smoothness of their skin. Tom wouldn’t deny that he liked to feel them tremble, and feel their lungs expelling air quicker than they could breathe it in, and even hear how sticky their throats were, as they tried, unsuccessfully, to swallow down their fears. 

So too, was it undeniable that their fear was far more palpable when he could touch them for himself. And _that_ , in all honesty, was the thing magic lacked: the personalised touch. For magic made its users beyond human; in a way they became gods, and with it, they forgot their beginnings. 

The crude rawness that made them first and foremost human. Killing was the only way to strip back the layers of cultivation and artificial refinement, and, find beneath the dirt that made up their bones.

Tom cast his eyes back over to Harry. This was the first time he’d watched directly, before, he’d been behind a door, able to hear the irrefutable evidence of what Tom did, but still not quite believing that someone of his, apparent, good nature was capable of such acts. Now though, he had seen with his own eyes the horrific secrets that Tom kept buried beneath his smile. 

The evidence of such was still lying on the carpet between them; limbs angled awkwardly from where the body had been left to drop, the eyes still staring, half-filled with surprise, and half with contempt. Though the jewel in the crown, as it were, was the neck sliced wide open like a second mouth, though one that would never eat. 

Even Tom would admit that it was a monstrous sight to have to see. But Harry wasn’t looking at it, rather, he was still watching the floor at the base of the chair. His eyes, undoubtedly, following the woodgrains, as his right hand picked at the sleeve of his left. 

Tom sighed and shifted his weight from one foot to the other despite himself; the anticipation was getting to him. Waiting for Harry’s verdict was a physical gnawing in his stomach, not unlike waiting for the results of an exam, or the outcome of a parliamentary vote. Though this held, by far, the most moral significance.

Was he to be a condemned man in the eyes of the only one who mattered?

Or was monstrosity yet another of their shared traits?

Tom shifted again, the wait making him jittery. His fingers tapping relentlessly on the wood, beating out the silence, until he gripped onto the sill of the window just to steady himself, not caring if he left behind a perfect bloodstain forever pressed into the paint. 

And still, Harry continued to sit there, silently plucking at his jumper. His fingers working over each other as they pulled and pulled at a single thread, dragging it out from the interwoven mass, and then tugging at it again, until there was a long, thick, strand of red wool looped around his fingers. He kept on pulling. 

Tom licked his lips, “Harry?” he said, soft enough so as not to spook him, but firm enough to give his, probably, drowning mind a lifeline to clasp onto. Harry’s fingers stopped pulling, and he looked up. Even from this distance, Tom could see how those pupils were stretched out wide and glossed with some beautiful trepidation. Not that Harry was scared, at least, not of Tom, rather, there was something deep, and rich, and _interesting_ , in those eyes, as though a great moral conflict was currently happening inside them. 

On one side was the disgust conditioned into him since birth, and, on the other, an intense fascination with this appalling desire that must have been growing, like a most persistent weed, in Harry’s heart since the very beginning. 

And despite the inappropriateness of it all, there was no denying that, at this precise moment, Tom wanted to touch him. To get his fingers under Harry’s jumper, and leave as many bloody fingerprints on his shirt as he could, and just as many soft bruises in his skin. He just wanted to show Harry the many miracles of death. But, instead, Tom remained still, pressed against the wall and the window; feeling the chill on his back and appreciating the distraction from cloying heat starting to fill the room like syrup.

“Do you want tea?” Tom asked quietly. It had been the first thing he’d drunk the first time he’d ended up in this position; though back then, it had been less organised, and blood had ruined a lot more than just a carpet. None of that distracted from the memory of the aftermath, it just made it more thrilling. Tom could still remember Abraxas’ face when they’d sat across the table from one another, just a cup of tea between them. His hands hadn’t stopped shaking for hours that day, and the world felt like it was crushing down on his lungs; having a mug of tea was the only thing keeping him grounded in reality. Holding it between his fingers had smoothed his nerves back down, and let him look at things in perspective, and admit just how _good_ he felt. 

Murder was simply a delicacy for the most acquired of tastes.

“Yeah… okay,” said Harry, though his lips barely moved as he spoke, and even after he’d finished, his teeth rested on the edge of his lip, half biting it. Tom couldn’t help but wonder if he’d looked so… small, and so changed after doing what he’d done for the first time. 

Was human innocence so easily stripped away? 

Had he too had constellations in his eyes as he learnt the secrets of life and death, and thus of the fatal human condition? Or was he stoic in the face of the unknowable knowledge that was now his to give to whom he pleased? It was a curious thing to think of, and nowadays, Tom couldn’t imagine himself being like this.

On anyone else, he would have called it weakness, but on Harry, it didn’t sing with the same insidious timbre, and Tom did not feel the typical disgust that he usually felt seeping into him when someone was displaying an obvious weakness. Maybe it was just Harry’s status as something _special_ that made him smile at this vacillating morality, which, on anyone else, would have got his fingers itching. Or, maybe it was because the thing that stained Harry was not weakness.

Rather it was a confession. 

An acceptance, if you will. 

He was coming to understand that there was something inside him that was just as twisted and malign and _wrong_ as the thing inside Tom. Whether Harry liked it or not, there too was an appalling secret lurking beneath his skin, and it had been there since the moment his consciousness had begun to shape. Just writhing, and contorting, and coiling itself around his morality until it was stained as red as pomegranate seeds, and just as sharp at the edges. 

Tom blinked, suddenly realising that he had been standing and staring for too long. Not that Harry seemed to have noticed. He was still sitting there, curled up really; though now his right hand was gripping hard on the side on the armchair, the fingers pressing into the material in the poor guise of casualness. 

Nothing about Harry was casual.

Instead, it was like a spring had been coiled up; pushed down into itself and left inside a jack-in-the-box. Any second now the lid might just spring off, and whatever was slowly simmering underneath was going to feel the warmth of the tangible world. 

That was going to be a beautiful sight to watch, but, right now, he needed to get tea. Tom swallowed; he’d have to pass Harry to get to the kitchen. Not the worst evil in the world, but an evil, nonetheless. Slowly Tom let go of the sill and stepped into the wide, open space of the living room, out here somehow felt like the open ocean with nothing to guide him but his own intuition. With just as much care, he stepped over the corpse that would have to be dealt with at some point and walked the small distance around the back of Harry’s chair. 

As gently as he could bring himself to, Tom brushed his hand over the back of Harry’s neck. Harry didn’t jolt or even shudder. In fact, the only movement that he made at all, was a slight incline of his head backwards, leaning into Tom’s touch. 

“Caramel or vanilla?” Tom said, not removing his hand in fear that without it, Harry might just dissolve into dust. This time Harry turned his head, probably because Tom had lied and said they were out of vanilla tea yesterday; it had been an innocent mistruth, by which he meant he’d lied for a reason. That reason being that, unlike Harry, he possessed the power of forward planning.

“Vanilla.” 

The reply was quick, but not sharp; spoken out of desperation as opposed to demand; it was almost sad to hear. Though that being said, it was hardly a surprising action, given the nature of what Harry had just witnessed, but still, Tom felt a slight pang in his stomach. Perhaps it was born of regret, maybe even guilt, though he doubted that; for remorse and repentance were not emotions that came either naturally, or, artificially into his consciousness. Tom was, of course, faintly aware of them as these _outside_ , and somewhat foreign, emotions, but they never settled so close to home. Never nestled themselves into his perceptions, merely hovered on the outside.

So, perhaps this sensation squeezing at his stomach was concern. A worry for Harry’s welfare, and unease at his apparent distress, if apathy could even be regarded as distress. 

Though as Tom continued to watch Harry, the moment dragging into two, and three, and four, before stretching itself into an entire minute of silent staring, he couldn’t help but see something in his eyes. Something dark and fizzing in the depths, hidden below the layers of moral panic. Just a little something that made Tom smile because it was the same thing that crawled through the insides of his eyes.

That atrocious thing that made taking other people’s lives feel good.

Tom exhaled slowly and gripped harder at the nape of Harry’s neck; it was surprisingly warm, heated with the rush of blood to the blood vessels in his face. If he stayed very still, he could feel the slight quivering of Harry’s entire body. 

Without really thinking, Tom smiled at him, and stroked small circles on the back of his neck; each time reaching further down to his shoulder and pressing his fingers under Harry’s shirt. “Don’t move until I get back,” he murmured, as he traced his fingertips back up along Harry’s neck, and into his hair, before letting go entirely, “okay?”

“Okay.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for taking so long to get this written

The kitchen was cold, and the light was far too sharp on his eyes compared to the dimness that had shrouded the living room. They’d considered for ages changing the lights, at the very least to some that were less clinical in their colour, ones that didn’t feel like your very soul was being examined every time you tried to make dinner. 

It was quite the distraction. 

Tom filled the kettle mechanically, watching how the water from the tap spilled over the lip and a few drops pattered down into the sink in the same way as the blood had dripped onto the wooden floorboards, before it had begun to trickle, and then to pour into the fibres of the carpet until they were beyond repair, even by magical means.

After all, whilst all the evidence of murder could be removed, there was always _something_ left behind. Whether that was feeling in the room, a warmth in his stomach, or a chill on the back of his neck, there was always a little thing left over from atrocity that no amount of cleaning could ever get out.

This time, Tom suspected that thing was the loss of innocence. 

And how beautiful it would be to know that forevermore, there would be a part of Harry left behind in their living room. Forever it would sit, and it would linger; perhaps coalescing with all the parts of himself that Tom that had been left behind over the years.

Just specks of their souls, hanging like dust in the air.

The permanent memories of the monstrous acts that they had performed together, and they would perform them together one day. In the immediate aftermath, Tom had had a moment of doubt, just a split second where everything they had been through was cast before him in a different light, and he’d thought that Harry was simply too _pure_ to be the one he could spend the rest of his life with. 

But the sound of the kettle coming violently to the boil snapped Tom out from that particular ponderance. He bent down to the lower cupboards and pulled out two mugs and two teabags; the large, wide, thick-rimmed mug coloured red with yellow spots for Harry, and the, thin-rimmed, flower-engraved, teacup for himself.

As he poured the water, watching as it coated the teabags and slowly began to drown them, their colours seeping out and staining the water yellow or green or, in Tom’s case, red. It had been a good evening really. The corpse on their floor had been his usual sycophantic self, which was tolerable for the mere fact that that night was the last time Tom was ever going to have to put up with it. 

Tom couldn’t deny the man had started to grate against his nerves. 

A personality with a penchant for flattery, and a habit looking at things that didn’t belong to him was easily enough to seal his fate. He wouldn’t be missed. The smell of the teas began to filter up through the air and Tom was faintly reminded of the smell of blood. 

That weak, almost imperceptible scent, but nonetheless metallic and visceral. Death had a smell too, a distinctive flavour that he could still taste on the back of his throat, which infected the very air; burrowing through it like insects in rotten wood. It was always particularly strong with unnatural death, particularly violent, unnatural death. But that was hardly surprising, death tainted everything it touched with this blight that everyone said was horrid.

But if they had cared to look, they would have seen that it was beautiful. 

How it settled, like snow onto your shoulders, and percolated through your skin, as water does through rock. There was probably something chemical to it; a process that Tom wasn’t acquainted with. Then again, it could simply be magic, deep, unexplainable magic, not designed to be described in a language that could not comprehend it.

Tom shook his head he was getting distracted again; it always happened after death found its way back into his bones. Once, he had tried to ignore how it made him feel. That thudding of his heart and the equal throb of his pulse pounding through his throat; so too had he tried to ignore the knots that twisted themselves tighter in his stomach, chafing the lining until it was a physical sensation, almost as though he were a grapefruit being wrung out; his insides mashing together into a pulp. The only difference between him and an inanimate fruit was that his skin did not betray the feelings inside.

He swallowed. 

The feeling was still there. That half-nervous, half-ecstatic thrumming through his veins like the deep reverberations of a cello being played far away. He couldn’t help but wonder whether Harry felt the same, whether the glaze that had shone across his eyes like ice across a lake, had meant something. More specifically, whether that snake-like entity was curling itself around his lungs with the same vigour, and whether its coils were just as heavy in the base of Harry’s stomach.

Even now, a good half an hour after the incident, he could remember the exact expression on Harry’s face as he’d watched, and he’d seen the precise moment that awe and horror, had mutated into fascination. Of course, at the time, he’d been a little distracted with pushing the very edge of the knife through the skin at the man’s throat; the action had been soft and gentle and ever so intimate, almost like a lover kissing at his neck.

But it _had_ to be like that.

After all, as irritating as false flattery was, it, in itself, was hardly an offence worthy of death, at least, not death by Tom’s own hand. He preferred to restrict his interventions, as they were, to the more… serious cases; cases such as those where people looked at things that weren’t theirs to look at.

Without really meaning to, Tom gripped his mug tighter, his fingers almost burning against the porcelain. He had seen the way that that corpse now lying in their living room had looked at Harry. However casual the glances attempted to be, the sentiment behind them was unavoidable; after all, everyone wanted a piece of Harry, but only Tom was allowed one. 

So, yes, it had been easier than he would ever admit to slide that knife through layer after layer of flesh, and the noises that he made were sweeter and softer than any that had ever been made before. Even the blood that had seeped all over his hands had seemed redder, the shade of crimson only found in the more violent pages of history.

The shade was still painting his fingers. 

For a moment, Tom stayed still and continued to grip at his mug. He considered not cleaning the blood from his hands, rather letting it stay there even in its dried and far less pretty state. A simple reminder of what awful things he’d done, and how good it felt to do them. But the nagging knowledge of the unsanitariness of it, not to mention the nervousness in Harry’s eyes, pressed too heavily on his brain and he went back to the sink.

One day he’d be able to leave those fingerprints over Harry’s jaw; inimitable reminders of the appalling secret they shared. But he had to be patient. He had to wait. And he would, Tom already knew he’d wait until the end of time itself; as long as Harry would be by his side for the final seconds of existence. 

He sighed; he was getting romantic. 

With that thought still sitting heavy in the back of his mind, Tom removed the teabags from their respective mugs and headed back into the living room. It was still painfully quiet. A thickness hung across the room like a fog, infusing a quietude into every molecule of air until the silence pervaded right into his lungs. 

The only sound that breached that silence was the faintest tapping of Harry’s foot on the carpet. It drummed, fast, almost uncontrolled. Tom stepped a little further in, not yet to alert Harry of his presence, but certainly enough to see him. 

Harry was still sitting there, exactly where he’d left him, though now both his feet were against the floor, his right foot tapping against the carpet, his fingers still gripping hard onto the arm of the chair, and his face fixed on the body with an intense fascination. If it had been anyone else, Tom might have suspected they were scared of it, of what it might do if they stopped watching. 

But Harry didn’t seem the type. 

He was watching for another reason.

Tom coughed slightly and continued walking as though he’d only just arrived back. Harry turned to face him; his eyes were still wide but there was a spark inside them now, a glint like that which might reflect off black onyx.

“Here’s your tea,” Tom said handing it over and trying not to get lost in those jungle eyes. Harry smiled at him weakly and didn’t protest when Tom touched his hand for longer than necessary. He wasn’t as nervous as before, but maybe the shock had simply sunk between the layers of his skin. 

“It’s a shame about the rug,” Harry said interrupting his thoughts before sipping at his tea, though Tom noticed how his eyes stayed above the rim and instead traced a line along the contorted length of the corpse’s spine, before coming to rest just beside its throat, where the mess of red was at its wettest.  
“I suppose it is,” Tom murmured, taking the seat across the room, legs crossed, and his hand splayed over the arm, “but it probably needed updating anyway.”

Harry looked up at him; he blinked a couple of times, “yeah… I guess it did.”

The silence once again re-entered conversation and stayed heavy on their skin. 

“How are you feeling now?” Tom asked, just to end this pitiful silence. Usually, things weren’t quite so tense between them, but, then again, usually there wasn’t a corpse lying between them and harsh memories of what had transpired colouring the air that they both breathed. 

“Fine,” Harry said, though the words came out to fast, too short in their pronunciation to be entirely natural, and they were accompanied by a shift to the left; a sudden jerking movement like that which a startled rabbit might make. 

Tom just raised his brows and took another sip of his tea; he let his eyes wander over every inch of Harry’s body from the twitching of his fingers to the darting of his eyes continually glancing between him and the corpse. “Are you sure?” he said slowly, keeping each note sure and defined, smooth enough that Harry would feel secure here, but still sharp enough for him to know that Tom wanted an honest answer. 

It must have struck a chord too as Harry looked up, right into his eyes and swallowed thickly. “You… I… It…” he said, starting a different sentence each time but never finishing the last. He swallowed again, and Tom watched the rise and fall of his throat, and how hard he breathed as though he were a corpse that was clinging to life.

Harry swallowed again, “It’s just… that… you looked… really _good_.”

Tom smiled and turned his head to the side; this wasn’t what he had envisioned talking about, but if Harry wanted to, then who was he to deny him? Instead, he lowered his mug and looked at him, “did I now?” he said softly. Perhaps the tone was a little light for the gravity of what had happened, but Harry smiled, and then caught himself and let his face drop back into seriousness.

He nodded. 

“I… I just couldn’t stop…” he paused again like these words were a physical effort to say, “… _looking_ at you,” he finished, and he was watching intently now. Tom could feel how his eyes were tracing the lines of his mouth and the curve of his throat and even over the shining buckle of his belt, before they darted back upward again. 

“And why was that Harry?” he asked, half out of a desire to see Harry articulate this strangely overwhelming want that had been growing as a flower does, but now had finally bloomed, and, half because he wanted to know precisely what this feeling was. 

Was it the same squirming suffocating thing that writhed in his own body?

Or was it something new and monstrous that he would get to explore?

He didn’t have to wonder long before Harry was shifting again, though this time it was less nervous; though still not controlled, and certainly not the same practised movements that Tom was so well acquainted with. Harry sat there, his thighs squeezed together and his hands tight in his lap. “You’re… so mesmerising,” he murmured, the words so simple and yet so effective; Tom had never been called mesmerising to his face before, although the word always accompanied him in some capacity.

He found himself swallowing and gripping tighter onto his mug. “Go on,” he said, mimicking, quite unintentionally the quiet, thoughtful, tone that Harry had used. “What makes me so mesmerising?”

This time Harry smiled; properly and fully, the lines of his mouth extending and the whiteness of his teeth becoming visible even in the dimness of the room. “The way you move; it’s so… intimate. And… and that moment,” Harry licked his lips, “where you had his blood on your fingers… and you looked at me, and… it was…”

“It was _what_ , Harry?” Tom murmured, fighting the urge to move, to stand up right now and just kiss the words out of Harry’s mouth. Instead, he took a long drink of his tea and inhaled to the count of four and swallowed; his whole body felt scratchy and raw inside as though all his muscles had been pulled tight and there was scarcely enough slack to let him breathe. 

“It was…” he paused, the words swirling around his mouth and folding themselves over his tongue, “…hot,” Harry finished, his eyes focused intently on the pattern of the curtains across the room.  
Tom dipped his head to hide his smile. Harry had always had a _unique_ way with words, that was to say, he tended to be blunt. Some people might have called it an irritating trait and not bother dressing up the language in all the fancy apparels that Tom himself did. He wanted to hear more of those blunt, ingenuous words. 

He swallowed and licked his lips and shifted to try and ease some of the pressure inside him. “What in particular?” he said putting down his mug for the final time and leaning forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his hands hanging down in the space between his thighs; he could see Harry watching them. 

“You know…” Harry said, now looking quite firmly at the floor, though it didn’t manage to disguise how the tips of his ears had turned dusky pink that was now spilling down his cheeks and all over his neck. “…When you…” Harry paused, though his fingers went, probably subconsciously, to his throat and caressed a thick line about half-way up, as though he were imagining what it would be like to have his own throat cut open and have himself spill out.

“His… blood was on your hands and your shirt and he looked up at you and… and he saw…” Harry continued to look at the floor, at the carpet, at the fibres that now stuck together with clotting human blood. 

“What did he see, Harry?” Tom said, leaning even closer, unable to stop himself from cracking his knuckles in the silence and listening to the splintering sound that would have made most people wince, except Harry was beyond wincing at something so trivial anymore. 

Harry raised his head, “he saw what you are,” he said softly and without the criticism that Tom had been silently dreading. 

Tom swallowed. It was a simple sentence, no decoration or ornamentation to alter the thing that had been buzzing around since this entire endeavour began. This was what their relationship had been waiting for, the moment when Tom finally stripped away the last layer of himself and Harry judged him for every shade of iniquity he saw. 

“And what is that?”

Harry continued to watch him, his lips quivering but never quite forming the words. It was though he was seeing everything for the first time; like Tom’s face had changed before his eyes and now he as faced with the painful reality of what type of person he’d dedicated his life to. But still, there was no judgement in his eyes. Harry did not hate him; he was not morally repulsed by the secrets that Tom kept within his soul. 

But nor was he convinced. 

Perhaps the problem was that Harry lacked the vocabulary to say what this was. Perhaps there was simply nothing in his world that could be used to describe how _good_ this atrocious thing felt to feel. Perhaps he needed a catalyst. 

Tom stood up.

He watched as Harry’s eyes, wide and black and unblinking followed him closer until he was standing less than a foot away. This was typically how their interactions went, with Tom standing, or Harry kneeling; Harry always being small and, some would say, vulnerable, but that era, as it were, was over now and it was Harry’s turn to have the illusion of power. 

Tom got down on his knees.

It was perhaps an uncommon gesture, but not because Tom disliked getting down to his knees, rather, there simply wasn’t any worthy of the act. Until recently no one had deserved the effort, but now looking at Harry sitting there with his fingers knitting together and his expression so innocent and knowledgeable at the same time. It made Tom want to worship him in the old-fashioned way, back when there were gods that could scrape the stars. He wanted to give him sacrifices and offerings but all he had was himself, so that would have to do. 

So, Tom kneeled; the unscathed sections of the carpet beneath him. Not that the presence of the carpet did anything to alleviate the hardness of the floor pressing into his knees, and the slight tilt that he had to make with his neck in order to be comfortable. But the discomfort was worth it to see Harry’s wide eyes, and his lip pressed between his teeth like it always did when Tom showed him _this_ sort of affection. 

Tom had noticed by now that Harry had a tendency to _always_ look faintly troubled by his advances, no matter how slow, or how gracious such acts were in their intention. Though, Tom had also come to learn that the reaction was not because Harry did not like him, but rather because he had failed to understand that he was desirable.

That Tom _wanted_ him.

And would continue to want him however monstrous his heart was. 

With no escape and no real alternative, Harry continued to look at him, those eyes wide and perpetually nervous, and his fingers still twitching; though this time one hand was pressed into the space between the side of the armchair and the seat-cushion, whilst the other gripped the mug. There was obviously still a thin film of moral resistance pressed over his soul, trapping inside him the nastiness that would have been much better released into the open. 

Tom could see how Harry swallowed, and he could feel how taut each and every muscle was as he parted his thighs and lay his head against the right one; the long sweeping line of his throat provocatively displayed. With one hand he touched the curve lightly, his fingers scraping through the dips and over the ridges, and with the other, Tom touched Harry’s left thigh, his fingers trailing up and down over Harry’s knee like waves lapping at the shoreline.

Harry stared with sticky eyes; the cup of tea forgotten in his hands.

Tom just smiled and exhaled slowly, “what am I, Harry?” he murmured, before rolling his head back further, “what are _we_?” He said that just as softly, and he couldn’t deny that he wanted Harry to say it, to speak the simple word for what they were. The one that must have been lying so heavy on his tongue for ages now, just begging to be said. 

“Tell me.”

For a few tantalising seconds, the words stayed on Harry’s tongue, as dead as the corpse that had brought about this moment, but then he licked his lips until they were coated in a shine of saliva. “Monsters,” he whispered, as though the word itself both horrified and thrilled him in equal measure. 

“Yes. Yes, we are, and don’t you love it?”

Harry nodded.


End file.
